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Updated: June 8, 2025
But, then, I'm queer on cougars. Have had many a cougar trail me at night. Ain't sayin' I was scared. But I don't care for that brand of varmint.... Milt, you goin' to stay down awhile?" "Yes, I'll hang around some." "Come over to the ranch. Glad to see you any time. Some old huntin' pards of yours are workin' for me." "Thanks, Beasley. I reckon I'll come over."
She was drifting into the drawing-room, to a tapestry stool, and Milt was awkwardly stalking a large wing chair, while she fidgeted: "Everybody tells me about how one poor dear soul, a charming lady who used to take in washing or salt gold-mines or something, and she came here a little while ago with billions and billions of dollars, and tried to buy her way in by shopping for all the charities in town, and apparently she's just as out of it here as she would be in London.
"So long, Milt," he said heartily. "We're proud of you, old man." Because the world is such a very big place and there are so many people busy with so many different things, life goes on as usual with little time for more than a brief pause of wonder at the experiences of others.
You are sure crazy, Amarilly!" exclaimed Milt. "We could buy it cheap," continued Amarilly unabashed. "I heard the grocer saying yesterday that property around here was at a low figure now. We could put our savings together and make a payment down, and instead of paying rent let it go on the balance each month.
Jeff had ignored Milt. But at this absurd second intrusion on his decidedly private dinner-party he flipped to the center of the room and said "I beg your pardon!" in such a head-office manner that the pink-locked Mystery halted in his bombast. Claire felt wabbly.
"He needs me but he'd boss me. I'd be the cunning child-wife, even at fifty," she worried, and "Hang him, it's like his superiority to beat poor Milt even at adventuring and to be such a confounded Modest Christian Gentleman about it!" "You'd you're so dreadfully managing," she sighed aloud.
Harcourt, you should ever need a friend in any matter of this kind, I am, sir, at your service." John Milton gazed half inquiringly, half uneasily at Jack. "It's all right, Milt," he said sotto voce. "Shake hands all round and let's go to breakfast. And I rather think that editor wants to employ you HIMSELF."
Now, son, when last did you eat a fresh egg or a flapjack?" "You should remember," he answered, laughing, as he followed her into a small, clean kitchen. "Laws-a'-me! An' thet's months ago," she replied, shaking her gray head. "Milt, you should give up that wild life an' marry an' have a home." "You always tell me that."
As he looked it over Milt felt that his wardrobe already contained all these gentlemanly possessions. With the aid of the clerk and the chart he purchased a tradition-haunted garment with a plate-armor bosom and an opening as crooked as the Missouri River; a white tie which in his strong red hands looked as silly as a dead fish; waistcoat, pearl links, and studs.
Milt ranged up to the short lunch counter, in front of the pool table where two brick-necked farm youngsters were furiously slamming balls and attacking cigarettes. Loose-jointedly Milt climbed a loose-jointed high stool and to the proprietor, Bill McGolwey, his best friend, he yawned, "You might poison me with a hamburger and a slab of apple, Mac." "I'll just do that little thing.
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